


A Shot to Remember

by Gnamjoon



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: But all the shit they get up to probably isn't legal, Doctor AU, ExArmy!Luke, M/M, Paramedic!Calum, Promise, Surgeon!Michael, The title's a joke - shots/injections, but not like a super sad, geddit?, hospital au, it's funny, its sort of like that one greys episode, receptionist!Ashton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4922695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnamjoon/pseuds/Gnamjoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Actually, that's not entirely true. I had to do a skin graft on a 15 year old girl called Kraken or something." Dr Frangipane plonks herself on Williams's lap. "At least that's how it was spelt. I was corrected by a slightly rabid mother, of course. It was some variation of Catherine, apparently. Poor girl. Martinez says some woman coming in for breast augmentation the other day spelt it K-H-A-T-H-E-Y-R-I-N-E. Fucking weird." She too, makes grabby hands for Williams's tea, though she doesn't spit hers back in there. Michael doesn’t want to be the one to tell her she's essentially swallowing Gerard's backwash. Apparently, nobody does.</p><p> Sometimes Michael wishes Calum, his housemate and best friend could be here for this shit while it happens at work, not just when they go out for drinks. The setting makes their lack of professionalism all the more comical.</p><p> </p><p>Or, it's mid-February, so all of the nut-jobs who stuck fireworks up their arses have mostly been discharged, and Michael's bored. Also, Ashton's a receptionist, Luke know exactly where to stick his pen, and Calum DOES THAT FOR A FUCKING LIVING.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bored. Bored. Bored.

Michael's in his scrubs, sitting on a gurney in the emergency room and swinging his legs back and forth, too lazy to go back up to an on-call room and sleep.  Well, that's not entirely true. He's on shift, technically, but he's a trauma _surgeon_ so he doesn't really need to be here unless he's paged.

Unfortunately though, they assigned him fucking interns this year, and _Christ_ he wants to murder them sometimes, because the minute he tries to nod off to get some rest before he needs to assist a surgery, his pager fucking goes off, letting him know that one of the bloody maggots has fucked up some poor kids stitches, and he needs to get down their _now_ before the kid's mother sues the entire goddamned hospital.

Okay, to be fair, that only happened once, and it's the worst incident that his bunch have had. Doctor Williams's lot got caught practising sutures on _themselves_ which yes, is quite impressive, dedication-wise but also _fucking idiotic_ and a waste of the hospital's medical supplies. It's just that he's coming towards the end of his shift, and he's gone a full 24 hours without feeling the rush of adrenaline that's supposed to come with this job _once._ It's a total cliché, but he's really cranky about it, which, you know, is kind of a dick move, because it should be great that nobody's life is in danger, but whatever. The universe hates him.

He runs a tattooed hand through his rumpled red hair, moving his fringe back to expose the eyebrow piercing that he has to take out every time he enters an operating theatre (not to mention every time he goes anywhere _near_ an MRI Machine), as he surveys what he likes to think of as his kingdom.

It's mid-February, so all of the nut-jobs who stuck fireworks up their arses have mostly been discharged, and no new whack-job has come in yet. The pristine white walls of the emergency room are marred only by posters explaining the symptoms of a heart attack, and a leaflet display in the corner that advertises pretty much anything hospital related; from Blood Donation to the dangers of unprotected sex (that one is always almost empty - Michael makes a point to always give one out to any teen patients that come through the doors, even hiding it in-between some others if the kids' parents are _those_ kind of people).

Only about a dozen gurneys are actually being used productively, the rest are being wiped-down or prepared by the nurses in preparation for later tonight, when there will no doubt be some party-related accidents whose drunken backstories Michael would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy hearing.

He's only got three interns, thank fuck, so the damage they can do is pretty limited. Alex is talking to a sixteen year old girl who fell off her skateboard and cleaning out her cuts, trying to distract her from the pain of the iodine, while Lynn, the only girl of his interns (and hopefully, the one that will choose to specialise in trauma), gets to work on putting her left arm in a cast. They both seemed to be doing pretty well the last time Michael looked, and nothing's really changed since then, apart from the amount of plaster that Lynn's applied. His last intern, Matt, is applying salve on a lady who's got second-degree burns on her feet from spilling a pot of boiling water.

All in all, they're doing pretty good for the end of their 5th shift in a row without threatening bodily harm at each other - they're winning throughout all of the hospital's intern groups, and Michael could not be prouder of his minions. This morning, Fuentes, one of Doctor Williams's interns, ran after Quinn with a scalpel, threatening to "slice his bloody balls off" and Michael thinks she's a saint for dealing with those five year olds, and not reporting them to Dr Armstrong, the Chief of Surgery.

That's not to say he didn't swagger into the operating theatre later on, asking her to call him Doctor Winner, though. Sainthood does not make one immune to Michael Clifford's gloating; nor, apparently, does it make one above giving the middle finger to a fellow colleague in the middle of surgery.

After about another 10 minutes of diligently observing his house elves like a good master, he hops off the gurney and goes off in search of a vending machine for some crisps. Or chocolate. As internationally-ranked surgeons of prestigious hospitals tend to do on the off chance that they get "bored" whilst on the job.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Almost like clockwork, as soon as he'd gracefully opened (read: stomped on aggressively until poppage) his packet of Malteasers, he'd been paged to the emergency room. Michael really can’t catch a fucking break, really. He jumps in the lift and prays that he doesn’t have to deal with any overbearing parents or an accent that's too hard to understand (Once, a drunk Glaswegian man had stumbled in and it had taken about 15 minutes for them to understand that he was looking for "a place where I can take a fucking piss". Charming man, really.) .

When he gets to the emergency room, hr almost groans out loud when he sees the former, rather than what would have been the rather hilarious and, if he's honest with himself, much-appreciated, latter. He pulls himself together as he enters the doorway, with a lab coat swish that he likes to think is reminiscent of Severus Snape.

 "What seems to be the problem here, my esteemed and qualified colleagues?" When he addresses his interns rather than the blond pastel-monster that appears to be sucking a lemon, he receives a small smirk from the anorak-clad boy sitting impatiently on the gurney, but a scowl from his mother that makes her look like she's sucking on a considerably larger object. It takes all his willpower not to giggle and make an inappropriate comment.  He's so fucking proud of his interns for resisting.

Lynn speaks up when Alex and Matt shrink back, unwilling to get more involved, "This is James Richardson, 15 years old, who apparently fainted during dinner earlier his evening. His mother, Mrs Richardson here, saw fit to bring him here only now, because it happened a second time. Blood pressure 131 over 86,  resting pulse rate 110 bpm, temperature 36 degrees, and he's breathing at approximately 16 breaths a minute."

 She reels off the kid's vitals, as if she's trying to mask the disparaging tone she had when she was talking about his mother. It doesn't work; she really needs to work on her bedside manner, which means she should probably intern under someone else, because Michael's is almost as shit as hers.

"You see? I don’t appreciate any of their tones! They keep asking me what I made for dinner - as if I don't know how to feed my child! I want to speak to your supervisor!" Mrs Richardson has a high, nasal voice, and when she speaks, her vowels are all clipped. It's fucking weird as far as Michael's concerned, and really, her attitude is kind of shitty, so he's kind of done being _too_ polite.

"Gunn, Gaskarth and Healy are _perfectly_ capable of handling this situation, _Madam_ , as they are, in fact, medically trained and incredibly knowledgeable in this particular sector of academia; however, if you prefer, I can take care of it?" From the corner of his eye, he can see James's smirk grow, though now it's mingled with a blush of embarrassment. Poor kid.

His mother's face _also_ turns red, though most definitely not from embarrassment; it's more of a splotchy red rash that Michael is trying to resist recommending her to Dr Joseph, Head of Dermatology, for. "I do _not_ pay thousands of pounds in taxes every year to have my son be incorrectly treated by some pierced, inked-up, pompous, glorified, _coffee-fetchers_! I want to speak to the most qualified doctor in this room NOW!" At some point during her rant, she'd started gesticulating wildly, and spit had started to gather in the corners of her mouth. Ew.

At this point, Michael just really wants to show this lady up, so he tells Alex to "Please ask the Nurses to Page Dr Clifford into A&E" in the sickly-sweet voice that all of his adoptive, overgrown children (because when _anyone_ treats them with anything less than respect, he goes full-on mama bear)have come to realise means _E-VAC-U-ATE, DANGER, DANGER!!_ When Mrs Richardson looks at him with a smug, questioning look on her face, he simply smiles and stares at her expectantly.

Her unspoken question is answered when his pager bleeps at his belt, and he feigns a look at it, before he rolls his sleeves up, making sure to expose as much tattoo as possible, and then sticks his hand out in greeting. "Hello, I'm Dr Clifford, Lead Trauma surgeon at this hospital, one of the youngest, in fact, because I started my pre-medicine degree a few years early due to my above-average IQ. I graduated from Oxford University, and passed my PLAB test, as well as an international certification with flying colours. Is there anything I can help you with?"

The look on that bitch's face is fucking priceless, and he relishes in the gutted fish impression that she makes (for a solid 15.4 seconds, Matt tells him later) before blustering, "My son. He's fainted twice tonight, and I want to know what's wrong with him."

The son in question looks completely mortified, maybe even paler than he did before, which means Michael should stop being fucking petty and get his shit together. "Gaskarth, Gunn, Healy! Can you come here please? I'd like you lot to diagnose the patient."

Mrs Richardson's jaw starts clenching, and in this moment, Michael swears she looks like his 60 year old neurology lecturer from his uni days. In pastel drag.

His non-yellow, and very much more adorable minions walk over hesitantly, which means she probably got even _more_ pissed with his cinnamon rolls before he showed up. Fucking ungrateful whore.

He's bloody well happy that her jaw starts ticking when he measures her son’s vitals and they're almost exactly the same as when Lynn measured them. He can't resist a jibe, so he nods towards Lynn, "Not bad for a glorified coffee fetcher, Gunn". She grins, and Matt and Alex have a sudden and suspiciously giggly coughing fit. It's brilliant. He's brilliant. And also very humble, obviously.

"Now, which one of you can tell me what ails this young man? Please don't be shy in asking Mrs Richardson any questions that will help you diagnose him. I'm _sure_ she will answer as courteously as possible, given that you are, in fact, helping her son." He flashes a shark grin at said 'lady', who responds in kind, face still a lovely puce colour. He fucking loves his job sometimes

"What was served at dinner, Mrs Richardson, if you don't mind my asking?" Alex’s American twang is distinctive - he's the only one of his interns that hasn't picked up the accent yet, and Michael's kind of proud of it when the woman cringes. Yes, _cringes._ She probably doesn't want somebody from the _colonies_ treating her son. God, what a snob.

"We had a mixed vegetable roast. Broccoli, cauliflower and Brussel sprouts. Desert was a mix of berries- mainly cherry and blueberry. All healthy foods, all organic without any additives or chemicals. I'm on a diet, and since I organise the menu, and I write the shopping list, the whole household goes in the diet with me. We _all_ need to stay healthy!" The spittle's back again, and the shade of her face really clashes with her blazer. 

He almost feels sorry for her, for what's coming. But not really. He pities the kid though. What kind of a dinner is that? What about carbohydrates? Fats? Good God this kid's probably never tasted pizza! What a cruel world.

"So, Mr Gaskarth, what's your diagnosis?" Alex puffs out his chest a bit and looks down at his notebook importantly. It's very childish. Like something a ten year old would do when his dad stubs his toe or something. Michael's so proud that his little Alex is growing up. Ten years old! Who would've thought that his clown-ish, cheeky, piece-of-shit intern could mature so quickly? Nobody in the hospital, that's for sure.

"Well, all of the patient's vitals would indicate hypoglycaemia, and his recent diet only corroborates that." Alex looks questioningly up at him, and Michael's super-glad he gets to say this in front of Mum-zilla.

"Brilliant. I completely agree." His young padawans are creatures of habit, so it's no surprise that he has to ignore a fist-height fist pump and a round of high fives that even James gets in on. Nice.

He turns to Mrs Richardson, whose been standing impatiently with her hip cocked and claw-like hands clenching the pale blue hospital bed. “Hypoglycaemia is when somebody has a very low blood-sugar level. If left untreated, it can eventually lead to type 2 diabetes. You told Miss Gunn that this hasn't happened before?" When she nods, he continues, "In that case, it's early-onset and completely curable - no injections, or tax-payer wages needed!"

James looks relieved, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree when Michael says, "All you need to do is drink some fruit juice or a coke, maybe even eat some fish and chips or a pizza. You need to have carbohydrates and sugars every day; not too much obviously, but definitely at least a glass of juice. Preferably concentrate, but we can start with this."

He looks like he's about to explode with joy when Michael hands over his Malteasers. His mum, on the other hand, looks like she's about to combust, "I can't have that kind of stuff in my house! I'll end up eating _all_ of it and then I won't be able to fit into my dress for Sharon's fundraiser! UGH!"

"Well, Madam, I think your son's general health may be a little more important than fitting into a sparkly dress for a night." Michael cannot actually _believe_ this woman. What a fucking bitch! "Mrs Richardson, if you proceed to visit these-" He searches for a notebook in his pocket, but doesn't find any, so he just snatches Matt's from his hand (and notices the quick sketches of Mrs R as a dragon with an updo), and rips a sheet out, "websites, you should be able to find a list of foods that your son needs to eat in case this happens again."

As she looks down to consult the sheet of paper, Michael turns to look at James, and mouths _EAT! NOW!_ The boy seems to take the hint, and all but pours the Malteasers into his mouth, causing the interns to snort. "Goodbye, James, Mrs Richardson.", Michael shakes James's hand, and then nods at his mother, before ambling back up to an on-call room for a well-deserved nap, ignoring Mrs Richardson's affronted look.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

It turns out that Michael physically cannot make himself fall asleep, snarky comments he wishes he could have destroyed Mrs Richardson's life with running through his head. He decides to go to the breakroom and have some tea instead. Strong tea. Black tea. He needs to get through the last part of his shift in one piece, and the caffeine will make sure he won't fall asleep whilst pulling a Barbie shoe out of a kid’s nose.

When he gets there, Dr Williams, and Dr Patrick Stump (whose fucking head of ortho - what a lad) are sitting at a table, trying to out-do each other with stories of how shitty their day was. Michael puts the kettle on, and slides into the seat next to Dr Williams.

 "-had the _nerve_ to ask me if _I_ could be the one to do his fucking prostate exam! What a fuckhead! Anyway, Quinn made up for his idiotic flirting this morning by telling the guy that I could castrate him in my sleep. Fuentes decided to do the exam instead of making poor Pete do it." She gives Stump a knowing look when he blushes as she mentions the nurse. "They're like my little overgrown children honestly. Ross and Urie too. I feel like I should bribe them to do all my paperwork for me with Maoams."

"Why bother? They have to do what you tell them anyway. I've had Gerard's little brother and that Iero kid filling in order forms for metal plates all week. I'm waiting to see them snap before telling them that they both get to actually stand next to me in the OR during an amputation surgery next week." Patrick does a little grin at the thought. "Also, is it just me, or do you have the interns with the most sexual tension in the world?"

Hayley pulls a face, "Ugh! Don't bloody remind me. Ross and Urie definitely fucked during med school, and now they're sort of avoiding each other, but not really, because I saw them making sticky-eyes at each other when we were examining some guy's balls the other day. Urology makes for the weirdest flirting, I tell you. "

"Sticky eyes over dodgy testicles?" Michael jumps in, "Bloody hell. It’s true. All doctors are fucking psychopaths! I nearly murdered a woman today. Honestly, what a cow." He launches into the epic saga of the Richardsons, getting up to make a mug of tea for all three of them.

"She was more worried about fitting into a dress than her child turning bloody diabetic! If you don’t give a shit about your kids, why become a parent?" he says as he sits back down.

The head of paediatrics, Dr Way, walks in and makes a beeline for the cabinet where all the warm food is kept. "Who the ever-loving fuck ate my pizza?! I finally wrote my name on the fucking _box_ , for shit's sake!" He flops onto the chair between Michael and Patrick, "What's that you were saying? Parents are the fucking _worst_. They're so fucking clingy with their kids."

Hayley snorts. "Yeah, I know right? God, you'd think their kids had _life-threatening_ conditions or something. What nutjobs." 

Gerard glares jokingly at her and steals a gulp from her mug, "Blegh! What _is_ that shit? Fucking tea-drinkers, you guys are the worst. Who wants some real caffeine? I'll send Dun out for a coffee run." When they all laugh at him, he says, "Fine. Fuck you guys. He has to do the rounds anyway. Make me deal with this shitty Nescafé." As he mixes the instant coffee, he grumbles, "They're all so bloody unoriginal with their names, too. If I have to order another X-Ray for Susan, 6 years old, joint pain, I'm gonna go mad!"

 "Actually, that's not entirely true. I had to do a skin graft on a 15 year old girl called Kraken or something." Dr Frangipane plonks herself on Williams's lap. "At least that's how it was spelt. I was corrected by a slightly rabid mother, of course. It was some variation of Catherine, apparently. Poor girl. Martinez says some woman coming in for breast augmentation the other day spelt it K-H-A-T-H-E-Y-R-I-N-E. Fucking weird." She too, makes grabby hands for Williams's tea, though she doesn't spit hers back in there. Michael doesn’t want to be the one to tell her she's essentially swallowing Gerard's backwash. Apparently, nobody does.

 Sometimes Michael wishes Calum, his housemate and best friend could be here for this shit while it happens at work, not just when they go out for drinks. The setting makes their lack of professionalism all the more comical.

Most of his friend-colleagues cycle in and out of the break room for the next, trading intern and patient stories. Dr McDougall comes in at one point, and has everyone in the break room almost pissing themselves with laughter with an acted-out rendition of how one of her older interns (Merrick, Michael thinks.) came in hungover once, and yelled at heart monitor, telling it to "fucking shut the shit up, you wanker" into the microphone whilst observing the removal of an aneurism.

"No, but you don't understand" She gasps, tears running down her cheeks, "the patient flatlined for a moment, and Zach had to run out of the theatre and fucking _vomited_ into the closest dustbin. _Vomited_. The kid's done 6 years of med school, and half a year of internships - he's actually seen me open a fucking skull, for Christ’s sake, but he vomits because of a _heart monitor_."

"Has Ashely told you what she and I walked in on once? In the storage room?" Hayley asks everyone in the break room, smirking.

When everyone groans, and says they don't want to hear about office sexcapades, Ashley cuts in, "Nah, it's not that kind of shenanigan, as funny as that would have been. From what I can gather, Patrick's intern, Frank, the guy with the crazy amount of vowels in his surname, was trying to get some Amiodarone vials to stock up the crash carts, but obviously, that shit's on the top shelf…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me on [ tumblr](http://i-have83protons-and-igivenoshits.tumblr.com) so we can cry together about this fucking band :')


	2. Cashton for Lyfe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, so basically, I'm an asshole for not updating this in ages - and also for adding another chapter on because this got a bit too long. :')

Michael gets paged down to the emergency room again about an hour before his minimum shift ends. Pete says it's a legit call - as in, somebody's life is in danger. He's trying not be excited. He thinks of bloody mangled limbs, and of guts spilling out of someone's stomach. Yeah, no. It's not working. He's failing - and so are his interns when he gets down there.

 "What's coming?" he asks Matt (who's bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet like an excitable rabbit) as they walk towards what some of the cruder medical professionals call 'the loading bay'.  He'd like to say he isn’t one of them, but as Dr Williams likes to say, he's one "twisted ray of fucking sunshine". He usually responds with a deep bow, because he's modest like that.

 His little munchkins are grappling over the call sheet, and yeah, it's immature as fuck, to put it lightly - especially as some guy’s life is on the line, but whatever. He can't bring himself to stop them - whenever they do this he gets all sorts of little nuggets of information that make for great stories in the breakroom. This time is no exception.

 They're still walking, and Matt is barely holding onto the call sheet, as Lynn literally jumps on top of his back, forcing a piggy back ride. "Give me the goddamned sheet, Healy, or I swear to god I'll tell Hann what you got up to with his sister last weekend"

 "Never!" He staggers along, and makes it to the halfway line of the sterile-white emergency room, where he manages to shake her off - by falling backwards on top of her. Matt is a master of strategy, it cannot be denied.

 He scrambles up and starts running, yelling over his shoulder, "54 year old male, Cray Fisher, suffered from an airway obstruction whilst walking down a street. Obstruction is still present in his throat, going into cardiac arrest, but your Paramedic buddy Calum seems to have that shit covered. Ambulatory arrival obviously, but get this-argh!"

 He gets cut off when Alex trips him up and steals the sheet. He tries snatching it back, but gives up after about 2.2 seconds. Pathetic. Pathetic but at least he's concentrated on the job. Shit. They have a casualty coming in. They need to get ready. "Scrub up guys, we need to get our shit together - Alex critical details only please"

 "Obviously emergency priority one, the guy has a nut allergy…ummm, immunisations are up to date, but _dude_ triage intervention…" Alex trails off, eyebrows raised. All four of them are now in their emergency scrubs, hair tied back and rubber gloves snapped on. They're ready to save some lives _._ Or in the interns case, ready to watch someone save some lives. _Nice_.

 "Fucking _what_ Gaskarth?! Get on with it, because I can hear the bloody si-" Michael gets cut off by the ambulance arriving literally in front of them, sirens blaring. The nurses on duty, including Pete, crowd around the ambulance to help get the stretcher onto a gurney - but there seems to be some sort of kerfuffle (what a word, _kerfuffle_ ) going on inside the ambulance itself.

  _"_ Dude, come _on!_ We've arrived at the fucking hospital, just let _go_ already!" That's Calum's voice, and he sounds royally pissed off. "What you did was totally irresponsible - you could have _killed_ him, Jesus _Christ_ , he could have been dying of asphyxiation _and_ blood loss right now - are you _even fucking listening to me_?!"

 The whole time, Michael's been craning his neck, trying to see what kind of _God_ is sitting next to Calum in that ambulance and not _terrified out of their fucking minds_ because, goddamnit, Calum Hood is one scary motherfucker when he's pissed off, and anyone who can look him in the eye, let alone fucking _ignore_ him is a potential spouse.

 And then the next second, the crowd of people clears, Mr Fisher's on a gurney, with Pete pumping his heart, Lynn squeezing the ventilator (Lynn! Squeezing the ventilator! YES!), and a pen sticking out of his neck, but none of that matters for the couple of seconds before Pete calls over his shoulder, "Doctor Clifford?".

 None of that matters because he catches a glimpse of the previously aforementioned badass, and moves him up from just being husband material to being _the one_. Because Christ on a fucking _bike_ is that man attractive. He's stupidly tall, skinny-jean clad legs awkwardly moving as he slides out of the ambulance, Calum on his tail. His blond hair is quiffed up, but it looks sort of odd, like he's trying to work with an overgrown buzz cut - and oh god, if this guy's military, Michael will literally faint on the spot. The clincher? The guy's got a sexy-as-fuck lip ring, _and_ he's wearing a blink-182 shirt.

 Michael opens his mouth to propose, but then he hears Pete, and something about the image he just saw actually makes its way to the processing part of his brain. "Why the FUCK is there a pen sticking out of Mr Fisher's neck?!"

 Calum lets out an exasperated sigh behind him and starts up again, glaring at Mr Sex on Legs, "Ugh, basically, this idiot over h-"

 "You know what? Never mind Cal, I've got work to do, I'll meet you at the end of my shift." And without sparing a glance at Mr Walking Orgasm (which he's actually really quite fucking proud of, in retrospect - what a strong character Michael's got), he runs off after old guy with a failing heart, a blocked up throat, and an emergency tracheal bypass in the shape of a pen sticking out of his throat.

 Work. Finally. Thank _fucking god_. (If he skips with happiness on the way to the patient, the only one who mentions it is Doctor Williams, who almost starts crying with laughter when Pete tells her.)

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Three hours later, he's out of his scrubs and into his day clothes, which are scarily similar to the ones that Mr Ambulance Joyrider was wearing. Except for the fact that Michael's zip is down, as Doctor Way oh-so-kindly points out with a snort when he goes into the breakroom to say goodbye to all of the poor (read: lucky) sods who are still on shift.

 He ends up staying in there for longer than he wanted, mulling over what Matt could have _possibly_ done with Hann's sister last weekend with Dr Frangipane, Hann's supervising fellow. "Do you really think they fucked though? Because, like, Matt seems like a _total_ romantic, and someone who wouldn’t screw drunk."

 She nods thoughtfully, "Yeah, true, but Hann and Healy have been buddies since before Med School, so he's probably had years to develop the kind of all-encompassing, life-destroying, friendship-ruining crush that he's probably got on his best friend's younger sister."

 Dr Williams walks in now, kicking the door open because she's got her hands full with about three large Tupperware boxes filled to the brim with what look like brownies. "Guess who got 'Thanks for fixing my ejaculation problem' brownies!" She grins, "Somebody help me open the fridge, or you guys are gonna eat this shit off of the floor."

 Michael obediently kicks off the counter, strides over to the far corner where the fridge is located, and pulls the door open for her, then ducks away as she goes to ruffle his hair in thanks. "Fuck off, this took me about 20 minutes to style properly, and I don't need you fucking it up."

 Hayley grins and stuffs her face full of brownie instead. "Shorry prinshess, I didn't mehn to fook oop your haaar for your mehn det wiv Caaam"

 Ashley laughs at him when he makes a confused at both of them, "How the fuck am I supposed to make a snarky comeback when I have no clue what you just said?"

 "I said that I didn't mean to fuck up your hair for your man date with Calum" Hayley grins at him, "One which you're late for, I might add. Why _are_ you late, by the way?"

 "He's stupidly invested in the private lives of his interns, and has spent the last twenty minutes gossiping about whether or not Healy slept with Hann's sister, and how pissed he'll be about it when he finds out." Ashley pipes up from her little area on the counter, having crossed her legs.

 "He already knows, guys. He walked in on them while it was happening at his birthday party. He figures it's a good time to tell Healy about what happened last year between him and Healy's then-girlfriend." Hayley laughs over her shoulder as she walks out, tying her hair, "It's all quite scandalous, really. You all need to treat your interns better. For only a couple of surgical sit-ins a month, as well as ignoring their sexcapades in the on-call rooms, Quinn and Fuentes tell me all the gossip I need to know."

 Doctor Frangipane and Michael are stunned, and just stare at the doorway that Doctor Williams saunters out of, impractical high heels clacking on the polished floor; her words only sinking in after the echo of them is long gone.

 "Holy shit, Michael," Ashley breathes, "That woman is a genius. A scary, hilariously misguided genius, who knows _way_ too much about her interns."

 "Yeah yeah, fuck you, Ashley, I _need_ to know what happens in their personal lives. How else am I supposed to tease the living crap out of them?"

 "Mike, that's just really fucking creepy. It's like when that dodgy old science teacher friend-requests you on Facebook whilst he's still bloody teaching you!" Ashley makes a disgusted face, but Michael can't discern if it was because of Gerard's shitty coffee or his pseudo-stalkerish ways of keeping tabs on his rookies. Probably both, if he's being honest.

 "It's fine, they're totally cool with it. Gaskarth literally told me _all_ of the history behind Ross and Urie. All of it. But if you'd rather not know…" Michael smirks when she puts her mug down and leans forward from her perch on the counter.

 "Does Hayley know?"  She looks at him with a mixed expression, one that's half _oh my god why am I so invested in their relationship_ and half _Fuck fuck fuck TELL ME, I NEED TO KNOW_.

 Michael's clearly very good at knowing when to piss people off, because all he leaves her with is an, "Oh! Look at the time! Cal's waiting for me in the parking lot! Gotta go, love. I'll tell you next time we're on shift together, yeah?"

 He sprints to the elevator, and the door's just closing when he sees her running wildly towards him, shaking her mug erratically and screaming, "That's two weeks away! TWO WEEKS, MICHAEL! I can't wait that long! Tell me! Tell Meeeeee-" The doors shut with a ping.

 Michael grins smugly at himself. God, he's such a dick.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

When he gets down to the lobby, Michael makes to turn towards the carpark, and braces himself for the cold that awaits, but something catches his eye. He turns away from the doors, and moves a little closer to the desk in the centre of the hospital's entrance.

 Calum's there, still in his uniform, fluorescent yellow jacket rolled up to his elbows as he gives the man behind the counter the biggest heart-eyes Michael's ever seen. This is nothing new though, Calum's been wanting to suck the curly-haired receptionist's dick since he and Michael moved in together - which moved Calum into the hospital's catchment area.

 It's actually really embarrassing for Michael that his best friend is so whipped. It makes him a shitty wingman, because all he does when he's drunk now is wax poetic about Ashton Irwin (or as Calum refers to him - the love of his life)'s biceps. Nobody wants to shack up with a guy that's got a lovelorn idiot hanging off him like a limpet. It's like the least attractive thing in a hook up. Well, apart from  dick-breath or terrible BO. Those are a major turn off too.

 But yeah, Calum is flirting shamelessly, leaning over the counter, and Ashton is either completely oblivious or really _really_ straight, and Michael's not sure which one is worse for Calum, to be honest, because unrequited love is a fucking bitch. Michael's just leaning against a pillar now, watching them, and _oh_! Yeah, Ashton's not straight because that's a blush. A very, very _very_ red blush. Awww. This whole situation is adorable.

 Okay, maybe slightly less so, because Michael's pretty sure that the thing that made Ashton blush? The thing that Calum whispered in his ear? Michael's pretty sure that it was fucking _filthy_ , especially knowing Calum's mouth. Gross.

 He reckons that his time as an anthropologist has elapsed, and walks forward. "Hey Cal, Ashton." He touches an arm to Calum's back, and nods at the admittedly ridiculously muscled, and ridiculously endearing guy that his best friend is so gone over. "Ready to go?"

 Calum nods, and then reaches into his pocket to give Michael the keys. "Gimme a sec, yeah? I'm gonna say goodbye to Ash, and then you can listen to me complain about that arsehole from the ambulance this evening."

 Michael snatches up the keys, winks at Calum and uh - Ash, he guesses, now. Then he giggles, then, claps his hands and then runs out through the doors of the hospital, shouting, "Yes _please_ , Calpal!" God, drinks with Calum is always fun, but drinks with Calum and gossiping and _boys_ is even better.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Okay, well, he _tried_ to run out of the hospital doors like in one of those medical dramas, but got cowed when he saw Dr Armstrong, who was just entering himself to start his shift, giving him _the look._ It's one of those things that only a father-figure-slash-friend-slash-employer is able to do, _the look_ is. And normally it would require a special connection with a person to do it, but somehow, Dr Armstrong manages it with the entirety of the fucking hospital staff, if not the whole bloody world. _The look_ is awesome yet scary at the same time, and that would be why Michael stopped in is leaping tracks, saluted the man half-seriously (there were break room rumours that the guy was ex-SAS, and when someone had asked him, he'd just tapped his nose and walked off and to quote Dr Way, "If that's not a _'Yes I was involved in Black Ops, and yes I know about the aliens',_ I don't know what _is!"),_ and then proceeded to walk in an orderly fashion towards his and Cal's car.

 He opens the door and collapses in the driver's seat; he never lets Cal drive - the guy's so used to being in an ambulance that once he puts a foot on the acceleration, it doesn't come off until they basically barrel-roll into a parking spot. Even if he's not driving, Cal's a fucking menace. He never just sits there, the worst thing he does in the car is never just changing the radio station or playing country music (ironically or not). No, Calum fucking screams at every single fucking driver that even slightly swerves into their lane.

 They were pulled over once, after a particularly harrowing shift, by a policeman that was "driving like he has twelve of those batons up his arse with no lube". Unfortunately, both Michael and said artificially constipated police officer had their windows open, on that fine afternoon, so instead of driving around London pretending (or not, in Michael's case, though he rather not admit it) to be loaded with money, they spent half an hour trying to convince the man that Calum hadn't meant it, that he was very sorry, and that he was just tired after a 36-hour shift of ahem, SAVING LIVES.

 So yeah, that's why Calum doesn't drive. Speaking (or rather reminiscing) of his roommate, Michael wonders where the fuck he his, because unless Cal and Ash are saying goodbye in an on-call room with a significant lack of clothing, Cal should not be taking this long. Michael slouches in his seat, huffing. At this point, he might as well go back in and stitch up a few knife slices, instead of being useless in the car.

 Just as he's literally about to get out of the car, Calum slides in and refuses to make eye contact as Michael smirks at his rumpled hair and uniform jacket that has somehow turned inside out during Calum and Ashton's conversation. "Don't you dare say a word, Mike, or I swear to god…" Calum glares as Michael pointedly clicks his seatbelt in place, and turns the key in the ignition, still smirking all the while.

 "D'you wanna invite him over tonight? I was thinking of just staying in, anyway." Michael looks over in Cal's direction as he signals to the left.

 Calum just looks back suspiciously, "But why would you want Ashton over?"

 Michael glances at him innocently, "What? There's nothing wrong with wanting your best friend to get laid, is there? What ulterior motive could I possibly have?"

 "Wow, that so nice of you Michael", Calum says sarcastically, "but cut the crap. Why do you want to talk to the recept-oh! You want to know about the arsehole in the ambulance this morning, don't you?"

 He looks accusingly at Michael, who has the decency to blush, "What, I, uh...no!" he sputters,” I happen to like Ashton, you tosser! His hair is um...very curly." Calum looks on, unconvinced.

 "Dude, you're so full of shi-WHO THE FUCK DOES THAT GUY THINK HE IS?!?! Get in your lane, asshole! How did that fucker get his bloody driver's license, huh?"

 "Blowjobs" Michael supplies helpfully, glad to move the conversation along.

 "Man is weak." Calum mutters darkly, staring out of the window, looking for his next victim.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Ashton does end up agreeing to come round, so, of course, Calum does his usual _fuck_ - _shit_ -guests-are-coming-over clean up routine. It's really quite hilarious, because Calum had texted Ashton before they were home yet (despite Michael's advice not to), which means the entire routine which normally takes about 40 minutes, now has to be condensed into 20 - including going out and buying enough pizza and crisps and Malteasers to feed a small army of the snot-covered, bratty, wailing children that Calum's sister Mali teaches. Also the same amount of beer, but despite how laid back and chill she is, Michael really doubts that she'd let those little spawns of Satan touch a drop of alcohol.

 So yeah, Cal runs around their flat, piling up old mugs of tea that have just been left around in his arms, cussing under his breath at his caffeine addiction. "God, I can't fucking believe we're such slobs. I work in a fucking van for a living, you'd think I would have learned how to maximise space by now, but _no no,_ I'm still a fucking mess. Christ - how old are those fucking Pringles?"

 Michael just stands in the corner, grinning, and also maybe purposefully making crumbs on the carpet with a packet of pretzels because watching Calum freak out over a boy is just too great. "Dude, calm down, we're just gonna sit and like, watch a movie."

 Calum lets out one of his signature sighs - the ones that make people feel like 6 year olds who've just disappointed their parents by shoving a Barbie-doll shoe up their nose. "Yes Michael, but nobody is going to enjoy a cinematic classic like _The Italian Job_ when they have a tube of Smarties up their ass, so you can fuck right off, and take your greasy hands with you!"

 The tips of Calum's ears have gone slightly red, and although Michael wants to make a witty comment about how his greasy hands could make the tube of Smarties a helluva lot more comfortable to sit on, he refrains. Because he's got all sorts of self-control, despite what the RA's at uni used to say, the biased assholes.

 "I hope there's some mutual dick sucking tonight because your balls are so blue that your scrotum looks like a Smurf's handbag", he mutters childishly as he walks off to get a shower, throwing the packet of crisps over his shoulder as a goes.

 He starts to sprint when he hears an incensed "MICHAEL!", and okay so maybe the RAs and his professors were right about his impulse control, the fuckers, but who gives a shit? He's the one that holding the really sharp and pointy knife for a living now, anyway.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 There at the bit of the movie where Seth Green fucks with the traffic when the doorbell rings. Calum and Ashton are all cuddled up on their now pristine brown sofa, and despite what Calum's response has been to his teasing, they're totally holding hands under the tartan blanket that's draped over them. That, or they're holding dicks. Michael's not sure which one he'd rather they be doing because on one hand, ew gross, affection, but on the other hand yuck, gag-worthy (haha), cum on the sofa that they SHARE.

 So because he's a nice roommate-slash-colleague-slash-best fucking friend, he heaves himself off of the armchair and goes to answer the door for the pizza, while Calum pauses the movie. He's the one who ordered the pizzas, so he's gone and put all the toppings that he knows Calum hates on his own, so the greedy asshole won't steal any of it.

 Ashton, it turns out, is a Margherita/plain cheese kind of guy, and Michael thinks that he and Cal could not be more suited - unless Ashton's plain cheese in the bedroom too, in which case, it definitely won't work out between them because Calum is into some frea _ky_ shit when it comes to shagging. Like, we-can't-high-five-about-that-in-public level freaky, which is _extreme_ because Michael's always a slut for high-fives.

 He moves back towards the now-paused television, and sees that Ash and Calum have both turned their googly puppy-eyes onto him and the pizza instead of each other and Michael gets a warm and fuzzy feeling inside because they could have been giving each other _handies_ but they're not, and Michael thinks that this is the truest platonic love that there is.

 "So, Cal, you wanted to complain about that hottie that was in the ambulance today?" He speaks up because now that they have the beer and pizza, well, it's time to talk about the boys, the fact that one of them is present right now be damned.

 Ashton, the dork, actually looks jealous, and oh my god, Michael wants to squee at how couple-y the two are because Ash's arm actually tightens around Calum. They're so getting laid tonight it isn't even funny. "What hottie?"

 Calum, in turn blushes, " _I_ didn't call him a hottie. Michael did. The guy's too much of a douche to be hot. He's literally a fucking civilian, right, and he saw that Fishy guy collapse on the street, and just _decided_ to do a fucking tracheal bypass that I bet he fucking learnt off some Med-School dropouts YouTube channel, and then fucking flat out _refuses_ to leave the guy in a _perfectly safe_ ambulance, and he's just a total fucking cocky twat alright?"

 Throughout his monologue of hate, Cal's eyes had gotten wider, and he'd started heaving, as if even the idea of the guy in the ambulance got him _that_ pissed off. It's adorable, really, and Michael would say so if he wasn't afraid that Ashton would get the wrong idea and let Calum's balls get even bluer.

 "You mean the guy with the Blink shirt that came in this morning? I had to process him after he got called up to Dr Armstrong's. He's pretty cute." Ashton shrugs, but then backtracks immediately when he feels Cal stiffen beside him, and sees the look of complete and utter betrayal "But um, totally not my type. No, not at all. He was uh, too tall, way too tall." He stops rambling when Calum snuggles back up to him and makes a muffled noise of contentment.

 "What did you have to process him for? Being a huge dickbag? Is the hospital going to sue him for malpractice? Please please tell me he doesn't have any sort of medical certification so we can destroy him in court." Calum's perked up a bit at the thought. "It's a shame Fishy lived," he muses, ignoring Michael when he tries to tell Calum the man's name was Fisher, "It would have looked great in court. For us that is. He’d looked shit."

 Michael snorts and Ash giggles, "Ah, no. I wasn't processing him for that." He's got that look on his face, a smug one that's similar to the expression that Calum makes when he's just let out a fart that smells like something crawled up his ass and died in Michael's direction.  It's a look that Michael's not used to seeing on sweet, sweet Ashton-the receptionist's face. It's a look that scares Michael shitless, if he's being honest.

"What were you helping him do paperwork for then, if not for being the most attractive male specimen of Homo Sapiens to ever walk this earth?" Michael's using a joking tone, but he sits up, back straightened, ready to tackle Calum to the ground if it's a piece of information he doesn't like.

 "Well…" Ash pauses for dramatic effect and Michael wants to punch him in the face for being such an arse, "Ambulance Asshole's name is Major Luke Hemmings and starting in two weeks' time, he'll be joint Head of Trauma with you, Mike." Ash says with a shark-like grin.

 It turns out that Michael's true calling is rugby, because the way he launches himself at Calum and initiates a cuddle pile is nothing short of professional.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me on [ tumblr](http://i-have83protons-and-igivenoshits.tumblr.com) so we can cry together about this fucking band :')


	3. Nose Hickeys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I hate me too for updating so late and adding another goddamned chapter. I just DON'T KNOW HOW TO FINISH THIS THING!!! Also,  
> It's like half past midnight here and I'm posting from my phone so please excuse the lack of italics. Trust me it's there and I will fix t tomorrow

After having wrestled Cal and Ash on top of one another as a distraction, Michael takes the time to truly reflect on the veritable nuclear bomb that Ashton's just dropped. (The fallout of which will probably be an endless stream of awkward work-boners that have the potential of getting his license revoked for being a weirdo that seemingly gets aroused when looking at semi-detached limbs. Such fun.) 

No, but seriously though - he was right, the guy was ex-army (A fucking major! Christ on a fucking bike!) and was wearing a fucking blink-182 shirt, and even though Green Day are _obviously_ a better band, this Luke guy is straight out of Michael's fantasies. Like, he bloody improvised a tracheal bypass for a gross old guy on the street! Amazing. 

What's even more amazing is the fact that Cal and Ash are rolling around on his living room floor, practically eating each other's faces off, and he hasn't yet started marching around the apartment, banging pans together and screeching _God Save the Queen_ at the loudest possible volume in a way that that makes him sound like he belongs in a boyband of singing chipmunks.  

When he detaches from Ashton's mouth with a gross sucking sound that's reminiscent of the suction in an OR, Calum looks like he can't believe it either. What can Michael say, he's both starstruck, _and_ feeling sorry for Calum's poor and lonely smurf-balls. 

"Are we gonna get beck to watching the _greatest_ movie-heist of all time or?" Okay, so maybe not that sorry, but sue him, Mark Wahlberg is pretty hot in this movie, and Charlize Theron even hotter so…"Cocks away boys. We're finishing this goddamned movie before I have to fucking sexile myself to Ashley's." 

"I just don't see what's so great about fucking Puke Lemmings man." Calum tries to pout adorably through Ashton's armpit. It kind of works for him, surprisingly. "He was a dick when we were inside Ketch, and if he'd done the bypass a millimetre lower, Fishy would have bled out." It should be noted at this point that Ketch is short for Ketchup, aka Cal's ambulance because he's kind of an adorable freak like that (not that Michael would ever tell him - he's sure Ashton will do that enough tonight - which, uh, ew.) 

As if to prove Michael's point, Ash clamps his arm down so that Cal's face is squashed in his armpit, and then ruffles his hair and pinches Cal's puffy cheeks before going, "Aww don't worry Cali, I still think you're macho and important!" 

Cal stops struggling and complaining about Ash's "stank" and just buries his face in the receptionist's side, and basically purrs because he's an egotistical pillock that thrives off people's attention. Especially if those people have hands the size of Michael's face, arms almost as thick as Calum's eyebrows and a giggle that could melt the hearts of puppies. And that's verbatim. Calum has literally described Ashton in all three of those ways before and Michael can't wait to pull that out at their wedding.  

"He's just so _hottttt_ " Michael whines, just to be contrary and piss his best friend off. (It works, he gets one of those patented _I'm-going-to-break-every-bone-in-your-body-if-you-don't-shut-up_ looks, but its slightly offset by the fact that its mixed with the _Please-please-please-let-me-get-laid-tonight_ face and the _I'm-so-fucking-whipped_  eyebrows (though those haven't been officially acknowledged by his lordship Calum Thomas Hood, King of the Desperados).  

Michael winks at Cal, and Ash pretends not to know what the wink is for because he likes to pretend he's a classy lad that hasn't been thirsting after Calum's cock , and that's that.  

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch, except for the fact that Ashley's moved the location of her spare key, and she's still on a shift at the hospital. He ends up pulling, like, six muscles breaking into her house, and then landing right on his fucking arse when one of her cats scares the ever-loving _shit_ out of him by meowing right in his ear.  

It's alright though, because Ashley has a fucking two-person jacuzzi bath thing, a very large and stocked-up liquor cabinet and candles that smell like literal sausages, as well as an extensive porn collection. His night is great; he uses up all the sausage candles, accidentally sets one of the cats on fire, and then nearly drowns it in the bath trying to put out the flames. Oops.  

He washes the bath _thoroughly_  thanks. He's not animal. He even leaves a thank you note scrawled in his stereotypically shite handwriting (because - doctor - of course) tacked to her otherwise immaculate fridge. She'll kill him for that (and the partially balding cat), but, y'know, anything to fuck with his Med School lab partner.  

He's glad she's not coming home until early Thursday morning though. He's be royally _fucked_. And not in the good way Cal was.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Michael starts his day off by tripping over a pair of boxers. He's not _saying_  that it's all Calum's fault, but like, it is. Because those boring-ass black boxers are definitely Calum's - he knows this because there's a tippexed penis on the crotch, and also, the only reason he wasn't looking where he was going when he re-entered the apartment is because he  didn't want to walk in and see all of Ash's naked bits; because although Michael's sure they would look amazing (obviously), he doesn't want to end up in teeny tiny little pieces sprinkled across London's rubbish bins, as Cal will no doubt do to him because he's dickishly possessive and likes taking Ketch out for secret joyrides. 

Michael falls flat on his face with a _thump_ , which prompts Cal to run into the living room, wrapped in a sheet and wielding a fucking _clothes-hanger_ as a weapon, making some sort of weird yodel-slash-battlecry that gets cut off with a mumbled _fuck_ when he inevitably trips over his own feet.  

"Cal, are you dead?" Ashton calls out from the bedroom, sounding slightly worried and very raspy, and Michael wants to stick out his hand to high five Calum, because _get in_. 

 Unfortunately, it's stuck _under_ Calum's thigh, and removing it would require some, ah, manipulation. He's not really squeamish about it normally because, hey, they touched each other's cocks a _lot_ in Med School, but his friend's just had sex with the guy who Michael's pretty sure will be the father of Calum's children, so it's off limits. 

"Ughhhhhh, Ashhhh. Save me! There's a disgusting fake ginger monster trying to steal my boxe-ACK!" His shitty attempts at comedy are cut short by Michael deciding that he's not at all above violence, and shifting his head and biting  his best mate on the nose. To be honest, Cal should be glad that he has a jawline that could cut marble, otherwise he would have been head-butted. Michael tells him so, and Calum decides to bite him back, only significantly harder. 

"Ow fuck, Calum, you wanker! I'm too fucking pale for this shit! I can't go into work on Thursday with a fucking _hickey_ on my face!" Michael hates his former best friend. He really does. 

Ashton doesn't though. He just giggles "The hospital betting pool is gonna make _soooo_ much money!"  

And oh! This is news. "YOU'RE the one that's running that thing!" Michael scrambles up and high-fives _Ashton_ , not Calum. Because Ash is his best-friend, not Cal. "Dude oh my god, you've swindled my interns out of a shitload of money!" Michael's normally all mama-bear about his interns, because they're basically his shitty, overgrown adopted children, but they forgot his birthday last year so…all's fair in love and war and betting. "Let's let Cal lie on the floor here like the sack of shitty burning potatoes he is, whilst you make me pancakes for breakfast!" 

Ash laughs as Cal tries his best to trip Michael up from the floor, still naked and tangled in a now pizza sauce covered bedsheet. "Nooooooooooo" he wails. "You promised you'd make me waffles for brekkie! This is betrayal! You and your dick are dead to me, ASHTON IRWIN. _Dead to me_!" 

Michael cackles madly as he wraps Ashton up in an apron, "It's too late! He's mine! You'll be stuck having really gross army sex with Puke Lemmings, while I climb your man like a tree! Mwhahahaha! Cook now, my slave!"

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He goes in on Thursday with a hickey on his face, just as predicted. However, he also goes in on Thursday having eaten the best pancakes in the world, so he's not too bitter. There's also the added bonus that Ashton says he can have access to his books - so he gets to see all of the intern's bullshit theories that they come up with - for this fiasco _and_ all the others.  

He can't wait to tell Gerard that his brother and the Lero kid both put 30 pounds on him vomiting before his first date with Lindsey - his now fiancée. He ALSO can't wait to tell Hayley that everyone thought she was limping the other week because she got, and Michael quotes 'shagged within an inch of her life in the On-Call room', and not because she'd tripped in her astoundingly high heels. (Let's get real - that woman can basically walk on water. He would have put at least 25 quid on that.) 

So despite all the whispers about a bar fight with a spurned lover (what a word - spurned) and a weird biting fetish (which he may or may not have - just _not_  when it comes to his nose), he holds his head up high and manages to save a couple of lives in the meantime. 

Thankfully, there are no more Mrs Richardsons or Glaswegians, though he thinks he sees Pete try and calm down a hungover geordie with a shot glass up their bum, and fake tan staining the hospital gown. Ah, the glamours of Britain. Never a dull moment.  

At around midday, about 7 ambulances arrive, toting passengers that thought it  was a good idea to be racist at a Chinese New Year celebration. Obviously, Michael fights his interns for a front row seat to see their faces when they get iodine burn. It's probably the most satisfying moment for him this year, if he's being honest.  

Actually, that's not true, his most satisfying moment is when he has to break one of their noses to realign it. _That_ has got to be one of the _best_ things about this job. Also, the 20 year old racist asshole was called Troy, and you can't disrespect that name. Not when it's already so goddamned stupid, but still holds such amazing childhood memories.  

Michael sees it has is duty to punch the twat as hard as he can - not that he's a sadist or anything. 

Anyway, his knuckles are red and smarting by the time he gets to his lunch break at four, and all he really wants is to slump in an armchair, and eat some of the _thanks-for-fixing-my-erectile-dysfunction_ biscuits that a patient had made for Hayley, whilst bitching and gossiping together. It's kind of bullshit that she gets all the baked goods. He wants some _thanks-for-reattaching-my-leg_ cupcakes. He deserves them. 

He stomps into the breakout room, ready to cut whichever bitch that ate the last of those biscuits because he knows, _deep down_ that Ashley fucking nicked all of them before she left, the cow. So he stomps in, expecting to have to whip out his scalpel, but ends up whipping out…his _hand_ , you dirty bastards. His hand, for a volley of high-fives that the entire breakroom rains down on him, along with a shitload of cheers. What about, he's not sure, but Michael's always been a slut for high-fives. 

"Nice job on the right, hook man", a voice says. Presumably the owner of the deliciously raspy _Australian_ voice is the one who puts a large hand on his shoulder too. In 2 seconds flat, Michael goes from slouchy tired emo doctor to sexy punk-rock godlike doctor - or at least that’s what he likes to think  happens when he straightens his back. 

"Yeah, well, he was a cunt so…" He turns around, ready to turn on the classic Clifford charm, and praying to all the gods that this guy was hot and, y'know, gay. What happens instead is that he takes one look at Major Puke Lemmings, MD, and turns the colour of his hair. That is to say, bright fucking pillar-box red. Which, as anyone in art industries can tell you, sure as fucking hell _does not_ match with the bullshit hickey that Calum left on his goddamned _FACE_. Michael wants to die right now. 

"Er, high" he chokes out, "I'm Michael, Michael Clifford, Head of Trauma." He sticks his hand out to shake. Puke Lemmings looks amazing. He's in what Michael assumes are his everyday clothes, and what he also concludes are his I-want-to-make-Michael-Clifford-pop-a-boner-everytime-he-sees-me clothes, because ho-ly shit. He's in his black skinnies and a Good Charlotte T-shirt. Simple, but, as evidenced by Michael's stiffy, very attractive. He's got his fucking lip-ring in, and he's wearing a burger-king crown and a white coat. 

This is clearly his welcoming party, and Michael wants to die, because all these assholes _know_ that he's arse over tits for this guy and he is going to murder Ashley. She's always behind this shite and he can't wait to- 

"Yeah, we've, uh, met. I'm Luke. We'll be working together from Tuesday, yeah?"  Luke takes Michael's hand, and not to be a cliché or anything but _zing!_ There was definitely a fucking spark there, though it could be due to the shitty carpet that Jenna dragged into the break room three years ago, insisting she _hadn't_ nicked it from the curb in her mother's fucking 'gated community'. 

"Uh, yeah, so I've been told."

Michael groans internally. He's supposed to be cool and handsome and suave but he's really hungry and he looks like a twat with this crap on his face and  _oh god_ Luke's staring, _SHIT_. "Looking at my, uh, decoration, huh?" Michael says, drawing Luke's eyes away from his colourful schnozzle.  

"It's very, um, eyecatching." Luke has the decency to blush. "Not sure I've ever seen one displayed so openly. Props, dude." Luke tips his Capri-sun in Michaels direction and, dear god,

Who can he make that look _cool_? 

"Trust me Puk- ah, Luke. Trust me Luke, it wasn't my fucking choice. One of the shitbags that drives the ambulances decided to get me back for arriving back home too early from my sexile" Michael blushes again, but this time he's more of a pastel pink. He grabs a Capri-Sun off the table and stabs it viciously. (Alcohol isn't allowed on hospital grounds okay? And, as evidenced just now by Major Puke Lemmings, MD, Capri-Suns can be _extremely_ cool.) 

"He bit you on the nose huh? Makes total sense." Is he? Oh god he is! He's flirting with Michael. Help, help, code red , code red, code _goddamned fucking re_ -" 

"Yeah Cal's always been a bit of a weirdo." Screw Esteban, Michael constantly thanks god for Hayley. "But he's finally got his shit together and started dating Ash right?" She pokes Michael in the side and, as always, she helps him get back to the mission: impressing the hot boy. 

"Yeah," He gives a weird giggle-snort thing that he knows for a _fact_ will be the topic of many a breakroom bullying sessions to come. "I don't think I'm going to be allowed back into my apartment for at least another week" He sips is Capri-Sun and takes a bite out of one of the biscuits on the table, trying to ignore how hard Luke's accent is making him. It's  not working. 

"Well, I mean, you're welcome to stay at mine." Luke says casually, scratching the back of his head (and at the same time flexing his biceps and giving Michael a flash of a military tattoo). Michael chokes on what he will later swear was an absurdly dry biscuit, and Luke blushes. "Yeah, well, we have some paperwork to look over right? Dr Armstrong says we need to sort shifts out and shit so…" He trails off, adorably unsure. 

Hayley stomps on Michael's foot as she melts away, presumably to tell Gerard to get his grubby hands off of the coffee machine. "Okay. Yeah. Are you staying for a shift today? Because mine ends tomorrow night, at like 3am?" He is finally the graceful alluring swan he is meant to be, not stuttering once. 

"Yes, Nimrod - uh, Dr Armstrong wanted to cover some ground rules and stuff." Michael can almost here Luke cussing himself in his head at the slip up.

 "Nimrod?" Michael feels giddy, "As in, call-sign Nimrod?" For a guy who was in special ops, Puke Lemmings, MD is a  _really_ shit liar. "Wait" he whispers, drunk on power, and also Puke Lemmings' utter shaggability, "Does that mean you know about the aliens?" 

Puke Lemmings, MD snorts _really_ loudly and everyone' hears, which make the tips of his ears blush and _awwww_. Michael as to defend this boy's honour. 

"Oi, shut up Healy, or I'll call your mum and tell her about the goldfish!" Healy's moth snaps shut like a bear trap. " _And_ you, Gerard - I'll tell Lynz what _really_ happened on your first date!" Gerard goes back to trying to subtly steal the coffee machine.

 There are already coughs of _whipped_ going around the room, along with Hayley's not-so-subtle Skype tone that proves she's totally calling Ashley but it's fine because Michael no longer wants to die; Puke Lemmings, MD is looking very happy right now, and it's all directed at Michael. 

"Of _course_ I know about the motherfucking aliens!" 

Michael grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me on [ tumblr](http://i-have83protons-and-igivenoshits.tumblr.com) so we can cry together about this fucking band :')


	4. Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh! It's done! I don't know about the ending, I'm always a bit dodgy about that, but still, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> feel free to message me on [ tumblr](http://i-have83protons-and-igivenoshits.tumblr.com) so we can cry together about this fucking band :')

Okay, so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Michael and Luke are now like, officially best friends (don't tell Calum). I mean, really though, what did Luke even expect? To feed Michael pizza, make shitty penis puns, love Mean Girls, look the way he does in Spiderman pyjama bottoms and _not_ expect to have Michael practically move into his apartment? (Although, to be fair, that might have something to do with the _extraordinary_ amount of sex Cal and Ash seem to be having - and  the fact that Luke bought the flat upstairs)

And yeah, he and Luke are super dependent on each other for loads of things - Luke can't cook, like, at all (and neither can Michael, to be quite honest. He just gets Ash to freeze all the leftovers), and Michael doesn't know how to pass some levels on Super Smash Bros;

Luke can't figure out how to run the washing machine, and Michael doesn't know how to make a bed properly (Luke fuckin does it so well that sometimes he can't actually pull the covers up, and ends up sleeping _on top_ of them).

It's all great and fun, his social life now, especially because Ash really likes Luke, and Calum got over their animosity once Luke apologised and starting talking about how much he respects paramedics for their work (and other shit like that, - stuff he actually meant and didn't bullshit. Cal still calls him Puke Lemmings when he's pissed though).

It's more than great actually, it's brilliant, but Michael can't help but wish that he and Luke were a little more co-dependant when it came to, well…sex things. Like, y'know. Sucking each other's dicks when it's been a particularly rough shift, or, like, fingering each other in an on-call room to de-stress before a surgery, that kind of thing.

Totally platonic bro-fucking. Well, until Luke falls in love with his dick and makes a tearful and dramatic post-coital confession about how much he wants Michael's hot bod in a relationship-type way. And, in that case, who would Michael be to refuse him? A self-sabotaging monster. That's who.

Thankfully, he's not in the business of refusing sexual advances from people he's been lusting over for like, three months now.

He tells himself that he's totally over wanting to make out with Major Puke Lemmings, MD, but when he does things like come out of the shower wrapped in just a fucking towel, showing off his stupid fucking badass army tattoos that were probably done with like, a ballpoint pen in the middle of a skirmish or whatever, and his stupid fucking six-pack, Michael needs to tell himself (and his raging erection) with a little more conviction.

"Dude gross, put some clothes on!" He grumbles in Luke's direction from within is duvet-barrier of solitude, curled up on Luke's bed, "No-one wants to see your skinny pasty ass!" He lies. Because, gods above, Luke's arse is neither of those things. Michael wants to enlist now, solely so he can shake the hand of whichever shouty old asshole put squats in the armed forces training regimen.

Also, was Luke in the habit of tanning his bum whilst he was overseas or some shit? Because it’s pretty tanned. Well, as tanned as a Caucasian ass can be without getting sunburned. Michael has experienced that pain - the one and only time he went outside as a child (visiting bloody Blackpool of  all places. Who the actual loving _fuck_ gets sunburned at _Blackpool_?).

The tanning thing is something that he'll just get Ash to ask Luke. Because Ash doesn't say mean, friendly-bullying type stuff to his friends that he can't mention again for fear of backlash. Also, because Calum would totally tell Luke and they'd gang up on him and like, fake tan his bum or something whilst he's asleep in an on-call room. (come to think of it, it’s a brilliant plan. He makes a mental note to add it to the list of shit he has to do to his interns before they become fellows.)

"Oi, fuck off Mikey - everyone wants to see my ass. Even Lynn, your young, hot, lesbian intern" Luke turns around from his chest of drawers and winks. Michael dies a little inside.

"Yeah, but she only wants to see your bum because my munchkins have a bet on whether or not you have a bulldog tattooed on your left arsecheek" Michael protests, wrapping the duvet tighter around himself, trying to block out the sin.

Luke opens his mouth to speak, but he gets cut off "Listen, buddy, I thought I was over them forgetting about my birthday, but they also conveniently _forgot_ " he makes air quotations, still grasping the duvet, but his point comes across, " to invite me to their chocolate milk parties, so as far as I'm concerned, they can lose as many quid as they're stupid enough to bet. You _are not_ telling them."

Luke smirks and nods his head, "I hate to break it to you man, but I'm pretty sure they're technically _our_  interns now."

Honestly, Michaels had enough of his shit, because this is an argument that's been going on forever and honestly, he's ready to like, proper fight Luke over this. Fisticuffs at dawn an everything. Except not really because Luke has shoulders about as wide as Ashton is tall, and forearms that could probably support a small mini-van full of toddlers (Michael's trying to convince Mali that it would be a cool experiment to do with her class) and washboard abs that look like the could be used as…well…a washboard. (Michael took and Msci with a Bsc in Biochemistry at uni, not English, so sue him. Also, he _is_ very much struck dumb at the site of the aforementioned abs.)

All summed up, Michael would much rather bruises of a different kind when it comes to this giant dickbag. "Shut the fuck up, loser. Hurry up, or we're gonna be late!"

"Michael, you can't just barge in here and steal my bedsheets. That’s not how this rel…er, friendship works. You've gotta at least like, make me a banana for breakfast or something before we leave." Luke is looking ridiculous right now, because he's wiggling around like a worm, trying to pull his skinny jeans on without having dried himself off properly and Michael kind of wants to cry at how fucking _stupidly endearing_ this man is.

"I can't _make_ you a banana, you tosser," but he gets up anyway and makes his way to the kitchen, and starts chopping up some fruit because he's fucking whipped as fuck.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

As soon as they get in, almost as if it was timed, the hospital gets an alert about a bus accident, where some fuckface in a Porsche was driving too fast and clipped a coach full of sixteen year olds, barrel-rolling them across the M25.

Michael really fucking hopes that they're not sending that guy here, because his actions would definitely lead to him being given a fucking life sentence, never mind being sued for malpractice. Luke glances at him as they're scrubbing up, and grimaces, as if he knows what he's thinking. "The kids, Mike. Focus on the kids."

Right. The kids. When the ambulances start arriving, he and Luke split up, so they can cover more ground. There are a few lucky ones that walked away with a couple of scratches and a black eye, but they're obviously still panicking and worried for their friends. He sees Pete and Andy looking after them, thank god.

They have to call in Ashley and Patrick, because one of the unluckier ones who was sitting on the left, near the window has a broken cheekbone. "Hey, dude, can you hear me?" The kid groans - unable to move his mouth because of all the swelling. His face is all black and bruised and his left arm is already is a sling. Shit.

"Okay, you can hear me, yeah?" Before the kid can even try to answer, Michael continues, "Okay, thumbs up, thumbs down - I'll only ask yes or no questions, yeah?" The kid gives him a weak thumbs up.

"Right, okay. So, is it just your face that hurts?" Michael asks, keeping eye-contact with the patient. A thumbs down.

"Shit. Um, is it your arm?" A thumbs up, but followed by a quick thumbs down.

"Ah, fuck." He thinks he sees a smirk appear on the boy's face. Nice to know he can provide entertainment, even at times like these. "Something else that hurts more?" He asks. Thumbs up.

Michael looks  wildly up and down at this kid, looking for emu thing that might seem dodgy. His neck looks fine; his shoulders, also fine; chest area, bandaged up for bruised ribs;

Legs - shit, there's a gash of blood coming through his trousers - looking relatively fresh. "Is it your leg?" Thumbs up.

"Okay. Okay, thanks dude, you did a great job telling me what was up."

Michael nods and smiles at the boy, who croaks out, "Jimmy. M'nam-name's Jimmy."

"Okay Jimmy, it's gonna be okay." He turns, grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting open the mangled trouser leg.

Shit fuck buggering wanking cunts. There's a fucking whole through Jimmy's goddamned leg, from the bullshit seating frames that he must have slammed against in the accident. That in itself would be bad enough, but the skin around the wound is all flushed and throbbing, and it's creeping higher up his leg.

"He's gone fucking septic!" Michael screeches. "How the fuck did someone miss this? There's a giant fucking hole in his leg!" He glares around the small compartment in the emergency room, whilst preparing a needle, and handing it to a nurse. "Sedate him, NOW!"

The last thing he needs is Jimmy fucking panicking and thrashing around on the table, so Michael calls him, "Jimmy, buddy. We're just gonna sedate you okay? We need to do some work on your leg, but it'll all be good. Just close your eyes for me man, and count to ten in your head, yeah?" Michael gets a sloppy thumbs up in return.

"Fuck, his heart rates already going up", Michael finds a spare pair of scrub trousers and cuts them up with a pair of scissors, so that they form a long strip of fabric.

"Somebody lift his goddamned leg please!" He tries to always be polite to the nurses helping him, but he's really fucking pissed right now - which is no excuse, obviously, but he'll apologise later. When Jimmy still has his leg.

He wraps the cloth around the offending limb, above the flushed patch. Then, he tied it into a quick double not, before Scott, one of the nurses hands him a fucking _urethral sounding rod_ (oh the jokes Michael could make), already on the same page as him.

"I've called the OR, they're ready for him with shitloads of antibiotics, and there are quite a few syringes calling his name." Scott informs him as Michael puts the metal rod in-between knots and twists, hard. "Doctors Frangipane and Stump have already scrubbed in to help with the cheekbone."

Michael nods in thanks for the update.

The aim is to stop the blood flow up the leg, so the bacteria from that manky coach can't get to Jimmy's heart and brain. The only downside of a tourniquet though, is that it also stops blood going _to_ the infected area, meaning that Jimmy could lose his leg if it stays on for too long.

"Get him up there, then." Michael nods at Scott, who, along with Teresa, takes the gurney and rushes it off to the lift. "Good luck, Jimmy" he whispers, squeezing his hand before they go.

Michael goes off in search of another patient only when he hears the lift ping.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He's in an OR when Scott speaks over the intercom to tell him that Jimmy's surgery went well about two hours later, and that they managed to reconstruct the cheekbone and save his leg. Michael thanks him for the information, but has no time for a breath of release.

He's trying to remove a fragment of glass from a girl called Jal's abdomen. He knows that the EMTs that responded weren't from this hospitals catchment area, so he can't really scream at someone when he scrubs out, but _Jesus H Christ_ they must be either ruddy incompetent or shitty trainees at the bottom of the class, because they fucking _sutured_ Jal up, thinking the bleeding in her stomach was just a cut.

They've had to open her abdomen up completely now, because the slab of glass is impaled in her small intestine, and they need to cauterise and sew it up _whilst_ they pull the glass out, so they can stop any internal bleeding or hernias from happening. It's complicated, but Michael's done something like this at least twice before, so he knows what he's doing.

"Fuck this is morose!" He laughs. It's honestly entirely inappropriate but he's always worked better in a positive and jolly environment, which is really fucking ironic, considering what he does for a living. He looks up at the interns in the observation area, chuckling when he sees Matt and Alex fighting over some M&S chocolate covered pretzels. Lynn, by contrast, looks like she's making notes. Nerd.

"So, mancubs, what's the gossip going around these days?" A nurse scratches his nose after he seeing him twitch it a few times. He loves Maura - she's been here since he transferred for his fellowship and can read him like a book (which has led to _some fucking_ awkward moments when they've been in the OR with Luke).

"Well, apparently  I'm sleeping with Doctor Armstrong" Supplies Lynn cheerfully, through a mouthful of crisps. Matt chokes on a handful of M&Ms, and Alex literally gives him the Heimlich manoeuvre. That's how legitimate his shock is. This is exactly the kind of comedy Michael needs right now.

Lynn, straight. What a joke.

He snorts loudly, and then everyone in the OR starts tittering - the strongest laugh they can manage without like, accidentally slicing a girls heart open. Because that would be bad. Real bad. But anyway. "Who the bloody hell started that rumour?" He wonders, actually wracking his brains, because who on _earth_ could be that stupid? "Needle please, Maura."

"It was Hann, spread it 'round once he realised I was the one that told everyone he had chlamydia." Choking. Again. Though everyone this time, rather than just the two childish idiots, now fucking around and wrestling over the last pack of prawn cocktail crisps. "Yeah, but he got it from a koala at the zoo, not because he wanked in a public bathroom - not that Claire asked." Lynn grins, shark-like.

"Doon't woah" says Matt through a mouthful of crisps. "Weh defahnded hehr onah"

Next to him, Alex nods viciously, "Yeh, we beat him well up!" Michael hopes that the skinhead-talk and the gang signs are a fucking joke and that he's being ironic because if that's not the case, Michael needs to send that boy back to the states with a fucking one-way ticket because - uh, _no thanks_.

"Right, well, I'll be buying you lot drinks when shift's over yeah?" Michael grins, "Proper entertainment." He snips the sutures to Jal's torso, and he nods at all the nurses. "You all included, ey?"

"The most expensive shite they've got Mikey!" Maura shouts after him as he goes to scrub out, "We'll fucking hold you to it, you shit!"  She laughs as he gives her the finger on his way out.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"That was fucking exhausting, eh?" Luke says, looking across the on-call room. "Mike?"

It's not that Michael is facing the wall because he wants to ignore Luke, honestly. Not because he's mean. If he wants to ignore the love of his life, it's probably because his dick loves Luke a little _too_ much. That, and, well, the on-call room fingering idea has been playing on his mind quite a lot - especially during his showers.

His dick is so hard right now it's almost painful right now.

"M'trying to sleep." He lies, fighting to keep his dick down - acutely aware of the fact that scrubs do absolutely fuck-all to hide inappropriate work-boners, though he surely isn't the first person to come to that conclusion.

He knows for a fact that the first-year interns had  a creepy problem with that sort of thing - though rather than it being a really hot head of trauma, it was probably the fact that they were surprise-groping each other the entire time . They were hard (oo-er) times - where one had to turn up to work in a fucking _jockstrap_ of all things. Michael never would have thought he'd have to spend his hard-earned money on _that_.

He feels a dip in the mattress after a second, and then feels arms wrap around his waist. _Shit._ "No you're not you fucking piece of shit." Luke grins and cuddles into Michael's back like the adorable motherfucker that he his and _oh my god_ Michael feels like he's thirteen again because he swears to god he's about to cum in his pants.

"You're ign _oring me_!" Luke whines, only half-joking, "Whyyy Mikey? Don't you _love_ me?" He giggles into Michael's shoulder, and fuck, Michael forgot about this. Every time there's something really stressful at work, whether it be a single surgery or a fucking _bus crash_ scramble like today, Luke always gets really clingy and goes into some sort of weird space where he might as well be high.

Michael guesses that it's probably a new thing, now that he's allowed to rest after practicing,  and doesn't have to worry about misguided, brainwashed twelve year-olds trying to shoot him in the head while he sleeps. It's normally super endearing, and Michael would be cooing over him like he usually does, if he wasn't trying not to nut all over the surprisingly comfortable brown sheets in what is basically a _public room_. Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He's just gonna take a leaf out of Luke's book and go to sleep, hoping that he doesn't have a wet dream and accidentally grind against Luke in his sleep or anything horribly embarrassing and cliché like that. Because shitty RomComs and Disney movies are _not_ his life. They're _not_.  Michael absolutely refuses to let the Universe to fuck him up like this.

A bird settles on the window of the on-call room and starts singing, just to prove to  Michael that he's wrong, and the universe can do whatever the fuck it likes.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The universe clearly took a lot of offense to the language that Michael's been using to converse with it recently, because when Michael wakes up, it's to a bunch of flashing cameras and his interns grinning devilishly, in the way that makes Michael know that he's gonna have to spend a significant portion of this month's salary in bribing them.

The next thing Michael realises, once he stops getting blinded by the flashes and wakes up enough to have spatial awareness, is that he is currently tucked into Luke's chest (the man in question still soundly asleep, snoring and making snuffling sounds that Michael kind of wants to punch him in the ribs for) - and he is the _little spoon_.

The cuddle position that he had made _explicitly clear_ to his interns that he _never_ assumes, under _any_ circumstances, because he's the manly man that _tops, all_ of the time. The cuddle position that made them lose 50 pounds collectively. Ashton's going to _murder_ him and Luke.

And not like, lame boring, shoot you murder. Long, torturous, pluck your fingernails one-by-one, make-you-watch-me-and-Calum-having-sex murder. The worst kind of murder. The kind of murder Michael is currently thinking of committing.

"Looking good, boss!" Matt grins at him, and Michael sort of wishes he was American like Alex, so he could get him deported. But that would kind of clash with his make-you-watch-60-hours-of-Friends torture that he's planning. God damn American Extradition.

"Hang on, you bunch of cunts," Michael says, slowly remembering something. Luke snuffles again in his sleep, so Michael stars whisper-yelling. "Wasn't the door locked?"

At his words, Lynn turns sort of pale, and clutches nervously at her breast pocket, which looks kind of bizarre, because it just looks like she's grabbing her tit, and not what Michael assumes is a lock-picking kit.

"I, ah, have a chequered past, oh supreme leader, sir." Michael knows that it must be a little more than chequered if she's trying to flatter him by actually recognising he's in a position of power over her.

Whatever. It's not like he'll tell the police that one of his interns is a thief turned surgical apprentice. He tells her so, and she smiles gratefully.

"If you teach me how to do that, I'll teach you how to hotwire a car." Michael is not above bribery, and his red hair and piercings are kind of like a double bluff.

Yes, he looks badass and dangerous and bad news, but he also really loves kittens and chocolate and really cute overgrown blond boys with lip piercings. However, he _also_ knows how to nick a car in under a minute and how to copy someone's credit card and how to bypass the bullshit new site-blocks that the government's put in for some of the especially weird porn (it was a _dare_ , okay).

Lynn nods enthusiastically, and at his pointed glare, ushers her giddy fellow interns out of the on-call room, winking back  at him as she goes. Honestly, if Lynn wasn't like, 10 years younger than him, or his intern, and he wasn't pretty much in love with the giant freak in bed next to him, he'd get down on one knee and _propose_ , that's how awesome Lynn is.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Lynn is an asshole and he hates her. If he had proposed, after finding out about this betrayal, he'd do something like really dramatic, like sneak into her house while she was away, and then spray paint _dumped_ all over her house in bright red spray paint, before taking a hammer to the ring and leaving it all crushed up so she wouldn't be able to pawn it off for money.

The little asshole, former favourite intern and now his paperwork-bitch for life, told her not-so-secret girlfriend, Alexa. Unfortunately for Michael, Alexa is _Ashley's_ fucking intern, so when he and Luke finally remerge from the on-call room and go to the break-room to get some coffee before heading back down to emergency, the pictures are all printed out in HD, full colour, and covering every available surface.

All their fellow "medical professionals" are busy gathered round a table when Luke and Michael walk in, yelling and shouting at Ashton in either elation or general pissed-off-ness, depending on which way the money is flowing, betting pool-wise. He hates everyone and everything. Except Puke Lemmings,

Michael would cuddle up to him and just ignore all these assholes that he has to work with for another 27 hours, but when they'd woken up (again, in Michael's case), they'd both had awkward sleep-boners that were wedged pretty close to other aspects of each other's bodies (namely, arses and hands), so now there's a weird sort of tension that Michael _thinks_ isn't sexual, just awkward, but he has the social skills of a llama so…. He's probably just going to go and spit in Ashley's face.

Speaking of the devil herself, "Oi, cheers Mikey! I just won this whole fucking pool! Three _hundred_ fucking pounds mate!"  Ashley grins at him and waves a wad of cash in the air, "Fucking idiots, you are _such_ a clingy little shit that it isn't even funny!" She starts dancing around the breakroom, stopping only to open the freezer and shove her face full of I-didn't die-of-testicular-cancer ice-cream.

"Shut the fuck up _, Ashley,_ " Michael threatens in his most uppity sneery voice (which actually sounds quite similar to that bitch Mrs Richardson's now that he thinks about it), "or I'll tell everyone why you _really_ got locked in the storage cupboard in a hospital gown, you slutty  second-rate surgeon!" The threat shuts her up quite effectively, but she's still dancing around the room and flicking through the money under people's noses , only now with a thoroughly wounded expression.

Luke, for his part, just walks to the freezer, steals the entire _dish_ of homemade ice-cream, and then does his weird speed-walk to what Michael knows is the paediatrics ward, because Puke Lemmings, MD, is a tall and lanky and steals thank you food from shitheads and takes it to hospitalised children who are feeling down and are having to eat crappy hospital food. What an asshole. (Michael is a little more in love with him, if it's even possible at this point.)

Instead of dwelling on how much he wants to shag Luke with _feelings_ , Michael fucks off to the emergency room, to help out some poor oppressed teenagers with infected home-pierced dicks - because _that's_ the sort of shit they do in their garages nowadays - running illegal body-mod workshops, instead of smoking weed and circle-jerking like normal people.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The rest of the shift is uneventful, with no major disasters or embarrassing incidents that elevate Michael's heart rate over the usual number of beats per minute, which in itself, is frankly quite disappointing. It's not because he didn't have to sew people up again. (He's had enough of that for one shift, thanks very much. Teenager's insides are pretty gross.)

It's mainly because Luke's been avoiding him. Michael didn't notice at first - because even though they do pretty much the same thing for a living, Luke's technically not got his own interns, and because Michael may or may not have agreed to do some of Lukey's paperwork, which he may or may not have a correlation to the whips noises that Calum makes every time the Trauma Twins (an intern-innovated nickname that has now gone viral, thanks to Ashley and the Hospital-wide group chat) walk into the room.

So yeah, even though they have different schedules, they normally make a point of having tea-breaks together, and given that, for the first time in his remarkable (if he does say so himself) career, he has actually received _baked goods_ in return for the work he did in helping all the teens on the bus. It's actually pretty great, the entire school has pretty much sent them boxes and boxes of brownies, cupcakes and shortbread.

It kind of sucks, to be honest, because he finally, _finally_ one-upped Hayley in regards to thank you presents (up until this shift, it had been thanks-for-helping-me-ejaculate-again Scottish tablet versus bloody bracelets that said things like _Janet x Lacy: GalPals Forever,_ that he'd had to cut off patient's limbs to let them get inside the OR), and he doesn't have anyone to share it with - because the munchkins are busy revising for their exam.

(Or, in Alex's case, busy ogling Jack, the nurse that works in Paeds, under the pretence that he's ' interested in the anatomical differences between wrinkly elf people and the pretty adults', when they all know he's going to go down the Cardiovascular route. Michael was there checking up on a patient, and saw their first interaction and _oh my god_ did he want to crack a whip ironically in the background.)

Luke's avoiding him, on the off occasion that they do bump into each other, they trade weird, cryptic looks. Michael tries to make his look confused yet sultry at the same time, but Pete bumps into him and asks if he needs to steal some laxatives from the store room, so he figures that the looks Luke has been giving him in turn are supposed to be equally as confused, with a slight bit of _what a fucknut_ mixed in, rather than the fuck-me bedroom eyes that Michael's been clearly placebo-ing himself to see.

When he calls Cal to force the pleasure of his company on him during his hopefully-slow shift, as best friends do. As the number starts ringing, Michael suddenly starts fearing for his life. Because Ash is always on shift and now Cal and Ash are dating and if it's a slow shift, Cal's probably gone for a smoke - the area for which is right near the reception, which means that the odds of Calum having a quickie right now are like a thousand to one.

If Calum answers the phone panting, Michael will actually cry with both sexual frustration and also the fact that this would be the fifth time this week that he's caught them going at it and that is _way_ too much.

"What's up, dickbag?" Cal answers in a perfectly even tone, with a normal breathing pattern. Thank fuck.

"I'm bored on a break, and have many, many brownies. Also, Puke's been avoiding me and apparently my sultry looks make me look constipated, so…" Michael trails off when he hears a loud groan coming from the other end of the receiver, ready to smash the _end call_ button.

"You are _so embarrassing!_ " Cal sounds infuriated, and Michael's kind of pleased at how many shits his friend seems to give.

"You can't go around making that face in my workplace you tool! Ashton works here! What's he gonna think of my taste in friends if you constantly walk around looking like you've gotten a hydrochloric acid enema?"

Michael takes it back. He is not pleased with this so-called friend's behaviour. Not at all. He should be ending this fucktruck's life with a dramatic thumbs down a-la-gladiator, not offering to do physical exercise to deliver him his hard-earned baked goods. This is a toxic relationship.

He tells Cal this, along with a request to break up, "It's not me, it's you," he says mournfully into the phone. "It's four flights of stairs and a rather long corridor to get to you, and let's be honest, you're just not ready for me to make that commitment, are you?"

He can _almost hear_ the eye roll and the reluctant grin in his best friends voice when he says, "You're a lazy asshole and I hate you. Bring me some fucking tablet."

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

"He's fucking whipped as shit for you, you wanker." Apparently, Cal had phoned Ashton, and with the promise of free brownies and cuddles, he had excused himself for a judgemental 'smoke' break. "For some reason, he thinks you're, and I quote from the last time we were sloshed and you and  ol' Mr Lightweight were asleep on the sofa here, by the way, _a fucking sex god_."

Before Michael can preen too much at the indirect compliment, Cal snorts derisively, "I don't know why, because you're the dorkiest piece of shit I've ever met in my life, but don't bloody question it and just _snog him_ already!"

"Erm, hi, hello Cal. Have you met the guy? His fist is the size of my head! What if he's like, really straight and punches me in the face?" Michael says, illustrating his point by filling his mouth with brownie and making hamster cheeks to imitate the swelling. "I'm too pretty to risk permanently disfiguring myself in the crusade for love and lay."

Calum opens his mouth to say something nasty and untrue about Michael's hairline, no doubt, but Ash rams a huge chunk of tablet in it, and then clamps his mouth shut.

"Seriously Mike, I'm so fucking done with this bullshit. You guys have been skirting around each other since you were fucking _introduced_. Did you know that you both confessed dick-sucking cravings on the _same fucking night_ to me, only about five minutes apart? And you pretty much live at his place by now."

When Michael tries to protest and tell Ash that he was _kicked_ out of the flat, he gets this quelling look that reminds him of the fact that his friend's fists are also the size of his face, and at this moment in time, look to be itching to make and up-close comparison.

"You two are pretty much already fucking married, with your ridiculous level of co-dependence. _Luke!_ " he mimics in a completely inaccurate falsetto, " _Could you please rinse out your mugs once you're done with them? I don't need to see this mess every morning!_ "

Calum catches onto the direction of this atrocious _bullying_ and replies in a deep manly voice, " _Sure, Mikey-kins! But only if you make me some toast because I can't cook to save my life!_ "

" _Only if you beat this level on my account and don't tell Ashton that he's better than me at everything, including FIFA"_ Ashton and Cal are having way too much fun with this. Bullying should not be a couples' sport.

Better than him at? Hang on. That's just out of line. Michael shivers, half with anger, half at the breeze created by the door behind them opening. He's going to _murder_ them.

"First of all, dickface, I _am_ better than you at FIFA you absolute _gobshite_ , especially considering you pretend to be crap at it so Cal can dom you." His friends don't even have the decency to blush, the twats. "And second of all, how domesticated Luke and I may or may not be is none of your goddamned business, because at least our flat looks _clean_ and not like there's gonna be pools of sperm everywhere!"

Michael is now on a roll and heaving in anger. "And anyway, I'm not just gonna get down on my knees and just _suck Luke's dick_ because I've been dreaming about it for ages! He hasn't, so just leave my dick-sucking tendencies alone! The universe has it in for me, so my life just doesn't fucking work like that!"

"That's a shame, isn't it?" Michael folds over himself and cringes when he hears the voice coming from right behind his shoulder. He turns, expecting to see Luke leaning on ketchup, either smirking with pity, or scowling with the anger of a heterosexual alpha-male.

Instead, what he sees is Luke in sweater-paws, sleepy eyes and blood splattered over the front of his scrubs. He's so lovely and pretty and endearing and Michael's heart _just melts_. He's pretty sure he sees Cal cracking a whip in the background, so he flips him off over his shoulder whilst maintaining eye contact.  "Erm hi?"

He gulps. "Listen, Luke, um, it's okay, I can get over it real fast, it's cool, I ca-umphhhh." He gets cut off my Luke's lips smothering his. It takes him a couple of seconds to recover from shock and fist-pump before he starts kissing back. He normally hates being interrupted, but this isn't so bad.

Luke's lips are soft and warm, sparking a heat that blossoms through him, making him feel like he's on a beach instead of out the back of a hospital in the middle of May. Luke threads his fingers through Michaels's hair, and pulls, tugging his head to the side so he can deepen it, wild and electrifying and so bloody brilliant that Michael's world seems to have shifted on its axis when Luke pulls away.

"You dumb shit." Luke grins against Michael's mouth. "I've wanted to suck your dick for _ages."_

In the background, Cal hands Ashton a twenty pound note.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hell-o :) Second work here. I hope you guys like it. Feedback would be great - especially if you need to correct any of the medical shit I wrote about. Google was my main source. The title is from another MCR song


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